Every writer dreams of finding the one. That elusive, dedicated audience member who hangs onto your every syllable, tracks your every plot twist, and never once complains about a delayed launch or a sudden, heartbreaking character death.
For the past eleven months, I have been blessed with such a muse.
Our routine is sacred. Every morning at precisely 10:00 AM, I sit at my desk, log into my computer, and open my latest manuscript. And every morning, there he is, already waiting for me. He does not care if I am in my pyjamas. He does not judge the empty coffee cups multiplying like rabbits across the desk. He just stares intently at the display, completely absorbed in the narrative.
Talk about focus. I have never seen someone with such impeccable posture or such unwavering attention. Hours will pass, and he will not blink, will not stretch, and will not look away to check his phone. When I strike a massive breakthrough in Chapter 14, Larry’s mouth remains open in what I can only describe as a permanent gasp of pure awe.
He is incredibly supportive, yet he has a few eccentricities. For instance, he always wears the same bright outfit, and he refuses to put down the book he brought with him, which is a little green volume he seems to be reading simultaneously. It is a bit competitive, sure, but I respect the hustle.
Sometimes, when the words dry up and the cursor just blinks mockingly at me, I will lean in close and ask for advice:
‘Should the detective find the hidden letter now, or wait until the gala?’
He never offers a loud critique. He is the perfect minimalist. But if I lean down and give him a gentle squeeze of frustration, he offers the most profound, high-pitched squeak of encouragement. It translates roughly to: ‘Keep going, you have got this.’
I honestly do not know where my writing career would be without him. He brings colour to my mundane workspace, stability to my chaotic creative process, and an undeniable sense of scholarly joy to the room.
I took a photo of him today, right in the middle of an intense brainstorming session next to my keyboard. Look at that intellectual gaze, those wide, supportive eyes, and that vibrant, unmistakable neon complexion. Who knew a writer’s greatest critic and closest confidant would turn out to be a pink rubber duck holding a tiny green book?
